In a Place Like This
by LondonBelow
Summary: Scott Summers can't escape the past, a thing he knows only as nightmares, the color blue, and an elusive piece of music. Charles Xavier lives for the future, devoted to his soon-to-be-realized dream of a school for mutants. Both must address the present when chaos comes to town-or rather, when Havok does.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer:** Needless to say, I have no claim to any of these characters, places, stories, etc. I'm just playing with them.

**A note on canon:** This story is set after my fic 'Broken, Discarded Things' in the _First Class_ timeline. It should make sense without reading the first story, though; it's _First Class_ plus one year and one emotionally fractured teenager.

* * *

In October, 1962, bomb shelters were in the minds of every American.

Eight months later, most were more concerned with stories of the new superspy James Bond, the introduction of diet cola, and—some more than others—Civil Rights actions in the South. The resurgence of the bomb shelter was effectively over.

Not every bomb shelter had been abandoned to gather dust and wait for the next Cold War blister, though. One in particular was still used quite regularly, this one to contain a threat rather than protect against it.

In general they didn't call it containment but training. And since "threat" is a harsh term for a teenage boy who can't help it, mostly he was just called Scott.

That is, when his companion remembered the formality of actually addressing him at all. At the moment Hank was hip-deep in technobabble and since they knew who they were speaking to what was the point? He seemed happiest there, anyway, filling the world for a few moments with the rational, comprehensive world of his own mind, with things like 'manifestation' and 'refraction' and 'hypothesis-based testing'.

Not everyone had Hank's love and understanding of science.

"But will it _work_?"

A note of whine crept into his voice, but Scott's dislike of training was no secret. He wasn't a particularly whiny sort, usually. He accepted any chore or math assignment with no more than a nod, but the closer he came to the bomb shelter, the more visible the battle between his desire for approval and his dislike of his mutation.

So Hank ignored the whiny tone and replied matter-of-factly, "Well, we won't know for sure until it's tested."

"What if I break it?"

Hank shrugged. "No one can use this but you."

He hadn't seen a way to make it work as glasses. Once Hank abandoned that idea, though, his mind opened to new possibilities. A single lens simplified the equation immensely, removing the problem of parallel modification.

Because, of course, Scott's ability required adjustable moderation. Previously, Hank helped design external power enhancements—wings for Sean, concentrated energy for Alex. They learned to control their own abilities, whereas now Hank was attempting to create a means through with Scott could achieve similar degrees of control.

Any control at all would be nice.

Scott chewed his lip nervously. "What if it doesn't work and I, like, blow up the house?"

"You've been using your ability unchecked for months now," Hank reasoned. At the moment, Scott's ability had only two extremes: either it remained wholly controlled behind his glasses, or he attempted self-control and blasted until—in his words—his eyeballs felt gooey.

Scott hesitated. He sighed, then declared, "I'm never going outside in this thing."

There was no arguing that point.

Hank held onto Scott's glasses while Scott adjusted the… "What do you call it?"

Hank thought for a moment. "I dunno. A visor?"

"That's kind of lame."

"Yeah, I know."

It didn't seem particularly important and neither of them pressed the matter—especially not when, a few moments later, it allowed Scott to use only a very limited amount of his ability. He laughed in something like disbelief.

Hank grinned. His creation had worked! He had managed to—

The following few seconds seemed composed mostly of sounds. There was the _kra-boom_ of the visor breaking and Scott's full power blasting forth, then the thud of a body hitting the ground and the sickening _crack_ of skull-floor collision.

"Scott? ..._Scott?_"

Scott coughed and blood stained his mouth.

A moment of panic seized Hank. He panicked in his own quiet way, freezing in place. Before he could recover Scott sat up, coughing more blood.

"'m okay," he said thickly. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, smearing rather than lessening the stain. "Bit my tongue."

As best Hank could surmise, Scott had simply lowered his defenses. Possibly the visor's failed containment had been a factor—but Scott insisted he was fine, just a bump on the head was all, don't worry about it.

Hank pressed Scott's glasses into his hand, feeling more than a twinge of guilt over the whole situation. What had gone wrong? It should have worked. Scott's power should have modified just as light would. It had, too, for a few seconds.

"Hank?"

"Yeah."

Blood dripped from Scott's mouth, staining his jeans, his skin where it slipped through the torn knee.

"I don't wanna do this anymore."

Anymore. Not 'again'. For Scott, this experiment had been one in a series, just another piece of the far-too-old 'what can be done with Scott's ability' sequence.

"I'll talk to Charles. I'm sorry about this."

Scott shrugged. "Science, right?"

But he took the reprieve.

Gladly.

_To be continued._


	2. Sunday Morning

With thanks, as always, to Hoodoo for beta-reading.

And to Booster2051, Anonymous, Ellie, whylime, Sanseru, Voodoo, and VampirePrincess156 for reviewing. I hope the story lives up to your expectations!

* * *

Not even nine o'clock in the morning and already the sun poured in like it had melted the windowpanes, leave square puddles of bright heat on the floor. Light caught every mote of dust. It made the still air seem that much heavier.

An open window might have helped, but it would have interrupted the quiet. Even the grating sound of a slow breath seemed too loud.

Scott Summers, fifteen years old (near as he could reckon) and a mutant (whatever that meant), sat at the piano and wished all the tiny noises would stop. Couldn't they give him five minutes alone? He needed to concentrate! There were so many distractions.

An occasional rustle of wind.

The bench creaking slightly as he sat up straight.

His heartbeat.

He forced another slow breath. Then, carefully, he began to play. He no longer remembered how to read musical notation or which key corresponded to which letter. He knew the timing was off as he played through the notes, thinking them only as he knew how: pinkie, thumb, index, ring, middle, thumb…

He only knew the first nine notes. The ninth felt wrong, like the edge of something. The whole song felt off and Scott knew it was, the notes stilted, like speech without inflection. And even those were tough to recall when he thought about it.

A shot in the dark: pinkie for ten.

Scott shook his head. This shouldn't be so hard! He knew the song, could hear it in his head when his thoughts went quiet… but apparently he only knew it well enough to know when he hit the wrong notes. He sighed and pressed his head against his hand, not sure if he was angry or frustrated or just plain tired.

Well, he _knew_ he was tired.

He once more shook his head. It did not dispel his thoughts or make any of the tiredness slip away, just brought more hair down to obscure his face. Why he kept his hair so long, even Scott didn't know. He supposed he didn't see the point in cutting it.

After another halting attempt, Scott took a pen and scribbled the numbers on the back of his fingers. Then he returned his attention to the piano and started again: pinkie 1, thumb 2, index 3, ring 4, middle 5—

_Take care of your brother, Scott._

He hit a sour note. It all jumbled together in his mind: the words, the song, the fear whose cause he no longer recalled. Even that broken promise was not the worst.

How could it possibly not be the worst? Scott knew what he had promised. He said he would take care of his brother. Now his brother was gone. His brother was gone, and Scott no longer remembered his name. Ethan, maybe?

Yet even worse was that pause. Like the song, the memory ended too soon. He wished it would go away wholly, not haunt him in his nightmares, that moment of silence so heavy with the knowledge of what came next.

It was knowledge Scott did not have.

That was the worst part. Out of everything, nothing hurt more than waiting for those words, for the last thing his father—

Scott rushed through the notes, music drowning his thoughts for a few seconds. It still sounded wrong, this time the notes too fast and too close together rather than the monotony they had been before. This time it sounded more like noise than music.

A burst of anger shot through him. Scott whirled away from the piano. It wasn't uncommon, that anger. He whirled away and buried his face in his hands. That wasn't uncommon, either. Nothing made this place feel less like home than remembering that he could quite easily break anything, and none of it was his to break.

_Scott._

At the orphanage, someone would have shouted for him. That had been an adjustment, and the sudden voice in his head at a particularly inopportune moment made him think something obscene—and, a moment later, that he really hoped the Professor hadn't heard that.

It didn't matter. Barring those fractions of a second spent on cussing, Scott responded immediately. He bolted down the hallway and skidded into the kitchen.

"I'm sorry." He didn't pause to speak, just grabbed a tin of cat food and a plastic dish. Artie was whining. "I remember."

This was directed at the Professor, a term of address on which they had compromised because the older man didn't like being called Mr. Xavier and _really_ didn't like being called 'sir', and Scott couldn't call him Charles.

"I know you do."

That had been the condition of keeping Artie: she was Scott's responsibility. He fed her, cleaned up after her, and kept her out of the house as much as possible. Scott met those expectations. Mostly, anyway.

He set Artie's food under the sink. She gave a mewl that he generally interpreted as _you finally did something right, human._ While Artie lit into her breakfast, Scott washed his hands and did likewise—substituting peanut butter for cat food.

The kettle whistled. The Professor poured himself a cup of tea and stirred it, the spoon clacking against the mug. "You're still having the nightmares," he remarked mildly.

Scott glanced over, then focused back on his sandwich. Sandwiches were much simpler. They didn't ask questions, they just got eaten. "I'm too old for that stuff." Whether 'that stuff' meant having nightmares or talking about them, Scott didn't specify.

"You're only fifteen."

"I'm nearly sixteen. Actually, when will we say I'm sixteen? Since I don't have a birthday."

"I suppose you can pick one and we'll say you're sixteen then. And you are changing the subject."

"It doesn't matter," he murmured. "I don't wanna talk about it." What would talking accomplish? The whole point in being awake was _not_ having nightmares.

Artie finished her breakfast and whimpered at Scott, winding figure eights around his feet. He picked her up with one arm. He scrunched his fingers in her fur, half petting her, and she responded with a half purr that told him he really could do better. She also responded by digging in her claws and kneading his chest.

"Fuck a flying duck!"

"I'm sure I misheard that…."

"Yeah—I'm sorry—she…" Scott trailed off. Artie's claw had done enough in a sensitive area to justify cussing, in his opinion, but saying 'fuck' was bad enough. 'Nipple' wasn't going to help. "Won't happen again."

Cats were like that, though. They knew well their own superiority, but they were so generous with those below them it was difficult to resent the occasional lapse in courtesy. According to Hank and the Professor, Artie was a light gray cat with green eyes. She was red to Scott, just like the rest of the world, but he didn't care what she looked like.

He didn't _care_. He still wondered. It made him think about the extent of the others' abilities, sometimes. His eyes destroyed buildings. Hank was strong, but did he know the limit, did he have one?

"Could someone make you stop reading their mind?" he wondered.

"Another telepath could."

"But not somebody like me?"

"You couldn't force me out of your mind, but if you asked me not to read your thoughts, I wouldn't."

Scott shook his head. He knew that usually the Professor _wasn't_ reading his thoughts, so it did not bother him.

"I was just wondering." After a moment, he asked, "What about someone really far away?"

"Farther with Cerebro, though Hank might be better able to answer you about that. You've got a lot of questions today."

There was an implicit question there, as well, a request for an explanation. Scott shrugged. "I'll ask Hank," he said, rather than admit he could not remember green. "Do you ever…"

"Do I ever what?"

Scott looked at Artie. It had taken a long time for him to manage a conversation with the Professor. After a while, rather than pretending Scott had not said anything, Professor Xavier started doing that, asking what he wanted to say. By now Scott knew better than to say 'nothing', although 'I don't want to talk about it' was usually okay.

Instead, he asked softly, "Do you ever read Moira's thoughts?"

Silence answered. Last year, the government began threatening Moira to reveal the mutants' location. To protect both Moira and Scott, the Professor erased her memories. He had tried to hide how much this bothered him.

"Sometimes."

"Is she okay?"

"She's fine."

Scott nodded. He wanted to believe that. He had been afraid of Moira and believed she would send him to prison or the Foundlings' Home back in Omaha, but still felt badly about what had happened. That was one of three reasons he cared about her. He also cared about her as a friend of a friend, and because she had been the one to recognize that he was a mutant and call the Professor—and, in doing so, she had probably saved his life.

Neither of them really liked talking about Moira. Occasionally, though, it seemed they had no choice: she had forgotten them, but they had not forgotten her.

_To be continued!_


	3. A Few Drops of Blood

With thanks, as always, to Hoodoo for beta-reading.

Also to Voodoo, whylime, ellie, crimson, and booster for reviewing. Reviews totally make my day :)

Regarding whether Scott is younger than Alex, in _First Class_, Scott is shown as a teenager and Alex an adult (ish); the story follows that.

* * *

August in New York was miserably hot and humid. It was bad during the day. Nights were torment.

Scott hated the heat. He hated the endlessness of trying to find a vaguely comfortable way to sleep and had given up on the bed weeks ago. Instead he stretched out on the much cooler floor. He imagined he was a sidewalk chalk outline of himself, carefully sketched so that none of his limbs touched. The heat from his body was just too much on top of the weather.

Scott was, finally, half-asleep when the rain started. It wasn't a real rain, just humidity pelting down in heavy drops, but it was close enough. He groaned in objection. Blindly, he turned on the light and grabbed his glasses, then went to open the window.

It didn't happen immediately. Scott sat on the floor with a book, trying to make his tired mind focus on the words. He was still trying and making little progress when something landed on the windowsill. A moment later, Artie jumped to the ground.

Clearly, she had been caught out in the rain, though it had not wholly soaked her. Scott closed the window and dried her off with a t-shirt.

"Knew you'd show up."

She didn't always, and he liked to think they had a mutually understood agreement that if she was not here by the time he got really sleepy, he would close the window. Rainy nights were different, though.

Artie acknowledged him by giving a complaining sort of meow.

"I know the feeling," Scott assured her. He picked up the cat and went to turn off the light once more.

Imagining the sidewalk chalk outline of himself, he settled back onto the floor. Artie poked around for a few minutes, then curled up and fell asleep on his chest.

He didn't know how long he slept, only that he woke to a quick burst of pain. He had just found his glasses when Artie bit his nose again.

"'m awake," he murmured, going to let her out the window.

Artie did not always complain. Sometimes she simply showed up for company. Really, though, waking him up was for everyone's benefit: Artie was let outside, and Scott did not have to spend the morning washing cat urine off his sheets.

It was earlier than Scott would have liked, but he did not bother trying to get back to sleep.

Instead he dressed and made the bed like he had slept in it, then wandered to the lab.

Hank kept inconsistent hours at best. He was _usually_ awake during the day, but if he was deeply involved in his research, he seemed to only need a few hours' sleep. There was always a chance of finding him here.

Scott knocked.

"Yeah—come in!"

Over the past few months, the lab had become progressively more scientific. Things Hank cobbled together looked like professional equipment; he could probably make a generator out of two paperclips and a rubber band if he had to. Scott found the place a little intimidating. He had no good memories of labs, and for a moment he looked around, nervous.

Seemingly unaware of this, Hank explained, "I never get tired of blood samples."

He only momentarily raised his eyes from his microscope, but the enthusiasm in his voice made for quite the welcome. Even though Scott rarely understood what Hank was doing, he thought it fascinating and wonderful, mostly because of the tone in which he discussed it.

It was Hank who dispelled Scott's discomfort in the lab. This place might look sterile like the labs back in Omaha, but there was nothing back in Omaha like a six-foot, furry man with ill-fitting glasses. There was probably nothing and no one anywhere else in the world like Hank.

"What are you doing?"

Scott hovered nearby, not touching anything. He wasn't particularly interested in the microscope. He had seen cell samples before, but always felt disconnected from them. Okay, so everything is made up of cells, and he knew that—because he had been told it enough times—but when Scott looked at those tiny blobs of motion, he felt no connection to them.

Besides, Hank said that any cells not splitting were dead, which meant just about everything around him was dead.

"What I'd really like," Hank said, "is a sample of human blood."

Scott swallowed the urge to laugh. _Okay then, Dracula_…

"I'd love to look at a side-by-side comparison," Hank continued, ever enthusiastic about research. "I've seen samples before, and I've seen images in textbooks, but I'd really love to see if there is any significant difference between human and mutant cells. I mean, there shouldn't be, in theory, but I've heard of mutants who heal rapidly—I'd love to see those cells."

He looked away from the microscope and his voice changed, directly addressing Scott rather than speaking and knowing he would hear.

"Just about everything you need to know about a person is in a few drops of blood, if you can look close enough."

"Aw, c'mon, Hank! You can't know _everything_ from a few drops of blood."

Hank resettled his glasses. "Not everything," he agreed, "but enough."

"It can't be possible."

Hank smiled. "You shoot laser beams out of your eyes, I'm a blue ape, and Charles could make you spend the rest of your life believing you were a dancing chipmunk."

He had a point: the Professor said all mutants were welcome here, but as a concept, 'impossible' was perfectly average. It had no place in this house.

"A chipmunk?"

"You know," Hank replied, like this was what had Scott confused, "those little things that go 'neep'."

Scott laughed. "Right. Neep. Anyway—I won't keep you from it."

He admired, even envied Hank's enthusiasm for his work. Although Hank never seemed to mind the distraction, Scott kept these conversations brief.

He had only taken a few steps when Hank stopped him. "Scott?"

"Yeah?"

"You were calling out last night."

The news brought a prickly, awkward sensation. That was two nights in a row. Scott knew he was quiet through the nightmares about his father, so at least no one knew about that one, but it was still embarrassing. Bad enough that he had nightmares at fifteen, did he have to go announcing it?

Hank shifted awkwardly. "I just… thought you should know."

Scott nodded. "Thanks."

He understood that Hank would say little about it, although they both knew the Professor might. The last thing Scott wanted was to discuss what had happened back at the orphanage, but he knew ignoring problems was not in the Professor's nature. Unless the dreams stopped, sooner or later, they were going to have a talk about it.

Yet for some reason, Scott found himself telling Hank, "I wish I had a reason."

"Well," Hank began, sounded uncertain, "I don't know what happened to you, but…"

_But. _He didn't know, but he had seen some of the scars. He knew it was something bad enough to give a fifteen-year-old nightmares.

He cleared his throat.

"It seems like a pretty reasonable thing, to have nightmares."

Scott shook his head. "Not that. I wish I had a reason it had happened."

Hank looked away. He was a reasonable sort of man, usually, very rational. Asking a question he couldn't answer seemed mean, but Scott couldn't help it. The thought kept bouncing through his head.

After a moment, Hank offered, "It sounded pretty bad last night."

"Shit." Scott said this matter-of-factly. He never swore with strong emotion because he never swore around adults, but Hank, despite the age difference, seemed more like a peer. He bit his thumbnail, then caught himself and stopped. "D'you think… would you tell him that I went to the library early?" he asked.

It was not unusual. Scott had become very much a regular library patron.

"Are you going to the library early?"

Scott nodded. He was not _exactly_ asking Hank to lie for him, since he would be going to the library. No one needed to know he would be hanging around outside for an hour before the library opened.

Maybe if he could postpone this conversation for a while, the whole issue would just go away.

_To be continued_


	4. Boys and Books

With thanks, as always, to Hoodoo for beta-reading; and to SeaSpectre160 and ellie for reviewing.

* * *

Scott loved the library better than nearly anyplace else. It was peaceful and full of books, and mostly quiet but for the steady whir of the fan fighting a losing battle against the summer heat—yet the building was shady enough to feel cool.

And it was something Scott could only think of as dirty, and that was a compliment. For all its tidiness, the library invited life into it. The windows let the weather in, dust motes spun laziness on the air and settled in less used sections. The library was a place of warmth and light, the perfect opposite of a sterile lab.

He knew the dustier sections of the library quite well, like the place he currently stood, with books on classical Latin grammar and Greek etymology.

Scott stood with a book in his hands and a small collection of books at his feet. As he read, two things made his pulse race. First, he knew he was pressed for time. Second, something terrible was going to happen. He knew that. He had been fighting that knowledge for two weeks, both times he hid at the back of the library and read pieces from books he was not allowed to check out.

He supposed he should have realized it right from the start, but told himself not to. He told himself to be less fearful. Maybe the idyllic, atmospheric opening sequence was a promise of a whole book just like that. Only there had been those dead mice, and then the puppy, and now—

Scott came to the end of a page and glanced at the clock, but barely registered the time, checking the time to appease his need to check it. He _couldn't_ leave yet, because he was afraid of what might happen next in the story. A week of anticipation was beyond unfair.

But he had to.

Scott was beyond late. He swore, stashed his book between two ancient-looking volumes on Latin, and penned the page number onto his palm. Then he promptly tripped over the novels at his feet.

He swore again as he gathered them up.

"Hello, Scott."

There was something else he loved about the library: Mae. The librarian had to be at least sixty, but she was hardly the stuffy cliché one might expect. She always had a smile on her face and had recognized Scott as a kindred spirit straight away, or so she said. He had it written all over him, that just like her he couldn't keep from smiling in the presence of books.

"Hi, Mae."

She wouldn't tell him her last name.

"Now, remind me what it is you're reading," she said, rolling the adjustable rubber stamp to the proper date.

"_Of Mice and Men._"

"Oh! I take it you've not read the ending yet."

"Nah. Curley's wife just died."

Mae paused. She had the now-adjusted stamp in one hand and the ink pad half-opened in the other. For a long moment, she just looked at him. Then she sighed and her shoulders drooped. "Dear boy, you cannot leave a story like that."

"I know." He did, too. The anticipation already had him in knots. "But I have to go home, I'm late already."

Mae began stamping the cards in the books Scott meant to check out. "If you want to take it with you…"

"You know I can't."

"I'll look the other way while you slip it into your bag."

The offer was tempting. Scott hesitated for a few seconds, all but drooling. He wanted that book so much he could practically taste a need for it. He had to shake his head, though. "Thank you, but I'm not supposed to."

He half expected to see disappointment in Mae's face, and for a moment he did think it flickered there—because he had refused the offer? Because he had not valued the book highly enough?—but then she smiled.

"You're a good boy."

He couldn't hear those words enough.

Because of his age, Scott had a child's library card. While he could browse whichever books he liked, he could only borrow from the children's section. He didn't mind, though, not too much. Once he stopped being embarrassed by the name, he started to appreciate that these books had something to offer, too.

So he slipped the four books he had chosen into his backpack, said goodbye to Mae, and stepped out into the sunlight. It blinded him at first. The heat was like walking into a brick wall. Between those combined, Scott managed to find his bike when he misjudged the distance and smashed his knee into the flagpole.

"Nice junker. You do realize the Clean Air Act hasn't passed yet, right?"

Scott blinked, trying to clear his eyes as he turned towards the sound.

"Shut up, Russ."

"I'm just saying—"

"You're always 'just saying'."

The speakers were a couple of kids about his age. Scott gripped his bicycle's handlebars, feeling suddenly defensive. The bike was one of the few things he really considered _his_, and even that quite tentatively. The Professor had told him as much, pointing out that he couldn't exactly use it, and if Scott wanted to fix up the bicycle it was all his.

What that had to do with an act in Congress, Scott couldn't say, but he knew when he was being insulted. He looked at the kids. They seemed much older than he felt at the moment. Anyway, none of that mattered. They were blocking his path and he really just wanted them to move so he could leave.

"Aw, c'mon." This was from the boy Scott guessed to be Russ, addressed to a remarkably pretty girl. She had softness all over her, in her eyes and her hips and even in the way she chided her friend. "I'm just havin' some fun with the hippie. You're all about fun, aren't you?"

Scott understood that by 'you', Russ meant hippies. He had no idea.

His throat had gone suddenly dry. He managed, "I'm not a hippie." _And I don't have time for this._

Russ opened his mouth, but the girl tweaked his ear before he could speak. "Don't," she told him, "it's not cool."

Scott glanced at his bicycle. It was easier than looking at the girl, especially given the way she had moved earlier, or the way her chest had moved with a sort of free heaviness that made him feel a way he really didn't want to feel right now.

_Bicycles._

"Hey, what's your name?"

_Bicycles. Baseball._

"Um." He had been asked a question. It should have been an easy one. "Scott."

"Okay, Scott, well, I'm sorry about my friend hassling you."

He shrugged. "Doesn't matter." He was still staring at his bike. Did they have to do this? He needed to _leave_. He needed to have left!

Resignation laced her voice as the girl said, "It was nice meeting you."

They turned to go, and Russ called over his shoulder, "Get a haircut, hippie!"

Scott scowled. _I could shut you up with a look, asshole._

He could, too, but he knew the Professor would be _really_ disappointed in him. Scott tried not to have violent thoughts around him. It was a part of him he tried to keep secret, the part that sometimes wanted to do things, to use this power to keep himself safe.

Instead he hopped on his bicycle and rode like the dogs of Hell were at his heels.

_to be continued_


	5. 24 Hours on a Greyhound

With thanks, as always, to Hoodoo for beta-reading.

Thanks also to whylime and Voodoo for taking the time to review :)

* * *

Forty-five minutes after Scott left the house, and completely unrelated, a bus pulled into the depot. With a heavy, exasperated sort of shudder, it stopped, and the doors sighed open. It was amazing how a Greyhound bus acted and sounded remarkably like someone dying of an asthma attack.

Alex Summers sniffed his t-shirt as he stepped off the bus. It smelled more of an unwashed man who had spent over twenty-four hours on a bus than of the sickly disinfectant they used, which was a mercy. His own stink didn't bother him. That cloying chemical compound, however…

Alex worked his jaw and spat, trying to get rid of it. Too many hours breathing that stuff and his throat felt lined with disinfectant.

Public bathrooms were grimier than prison bathrooms, but all Alex really needed was running water. He tried the first tap. Apparently 'running water' was too much to ask! Luckily the second tap worked. Alex shrugged out of his jacket and t-shirt and rinsed off the bus-y essence. When he felt something like human (or whatever) again, he pulled on a vaguely clean shirt and shoved the dirty one in his bag.

He tossed a soda bottle into the garbage on his way to the payphone. A nickel rattled through the phone, clanking down into its hold. Alex dialed.

The operator responded: _"Please insert another five cents."_

Alex cussed at her as he dug through his pockets, finally finding another nickel in his jacket. It clinked into the machine and his call went through.

After two rings, someone answered, "Hello?"

"It's me."

"Alex!"

He smiled. Sisters were great. No matter how many times you stole their dolls, drank milk from the carton, or got arrested, they were still happy to hear your voice.

"Did you get there okay?"

"Yeah, I'm here."

Across the street, a homeless man dug through a trash can.

"How was the bus?"

Alex laughed. "Boring."

His attention was still on the homeless man, his mind urging him to move on to another bin.

"Listen, Alex—I totally trust you, and I'm not implying anything, but… have you thought about what you're gonna do? You were really vague."

_Aw, damn…_

The homeless man had found the bottle. Alex bit his lip. In a terrible way, it was kind of funny, although he really hoped the man didn't actually drink that.

"I have some friends here. I'm going to see if I can't crash with them for a while."

"Friends?"

"Not those kinds of friends."

No, they were hardly likely to land him in prison again. The thought was almost funny—Hank and Charles, up to no good!

The homeless man twisted open the bottle, and the look on his face was hilarious. Alex turned away to hide that he was shaking with laughter.

"Alex?"

"Sorry, Haley. I wasn't laughing at you."

It had been a long bus ride. Alex had no idea how girls managed those sorts of trips, but he had been peeing in a 7-Up bottle.

The phone beeped a warning.

"I gotta go. Take care."

"You too. Call me if you run into trouble."

There was a sort of dutiful tone. Alex knew he had never been the best at staying out of trouble and had never liked asking for help when he needed it, but Haley offered, anyway.

_"Please insert another five cents."_

Alex did not have another five cents.

"Love you," he said quickly, and hung up. He glanced around, glad the homeless man had moved on—there had been no one around to hear him sound like a dweeb.

Then he slipped a straw from his pocket. He was once more glad there was no one around, this time because they did not see him jamming the coin slot and tricking the payphone into spitting out its change. He was not completely broke, but he did not have many nickels on him or much respect for the telephone company.

The change was more than enough to buy him a conversation. Alex stopped at the first convenience store he found. While he counted out the coins for a soda and candy bar, he asked, "You think you could help me out with directions? I just got into town…"

The cashier looked like he wanted nothing more than to return to the book pinned open by the register, but he nodded. "Where're you trying to get to?"

"Uh…" Shit. What was that street? "It's outside the city, it's like, this really big house."

"The haunted house?" the cashier interrupted.

"Haunted," Alex repeated, skeptical.

"Out on Graymalkin, weird giant place."

"Yeah, sounds like it." Either that, or there were two insanely giant houses in the area. It was the sort of thing he could ask Sean, who had the advantage of a bird's-eye view.

Alex slid a pile of change across the counter. He had guessed he had a considerable walk ahead of him, though after more than a day on a Greyhound bus, he appreciated that. At first, he focused on the directions, but once he left the town behind it was just Alex and his thoughts as he plodded down the road.

Over the past months, he had taken a handful of temporary jobs, earned enough to do what he wanted—live independently, not starve to death, drink and party. A few times he left town in a hurry, though he had better control of his ability now.

It had taken him a while to realize what he was really doing. He knew he was living a primarily superficial existence, but it took him months to accept he was doing it because of Darwin. He was doing it because he enjoyed it, but also because of Darwin, because he had been responsible for his friend's death. And he had stood there and watched while someone died. And he needed to not think about that.

By the time the sun burned off the relative chill of the morning, Alex could no longer see the town behind him. He could not see the house, either, just a lot of trees lining the road. What was he going to say, if they asked what he had been up to?

Probably something sexual, a remark which would serve two purposes. First, it would put a stop to the questions. Second, it would be hilarious. Alex loved filthy jokes. Maybe Sean was back, too—he had a great sense of humor. Charles didn't, though. Sexual comments were the ultimate change of subject with him.

He needed a better answer as to why he had returned. He didn't have one, for them or for himself.

By the time he reached Charles's place, Alex was beginning to wonder if he had taken a wrong turn. His efforts at the bus depot were completely undone; he was back to smelling like a guy who desperately needed a shower, thanks to the humidity. (Also thanks to the several days that had passed since he last showered.)

Alex knocked at the door. When no one answered, he tried the doorknob. It turned easily.

"Hello?"

He had no idea what had happened in his absence. He had seen a soccer ball on the lawn, so at least Hank was still here. Maybe they had a whole new team. Maybe Hank had worked up another 'cure'. Maybe Charles had told Moira how he felt about her—okay, so that one was a little unrealistic.

Alex looked around as he walked into the house. Nothing seemed different. The place was so quiet his footsteps practically echoed.

"Charles? Hank? Anybody here?"

Alex did not feel like an intruder. After all, he knew where the spare key was hidden. He simply did not know what to do. Settling in without speaking to anyone seemed odd. Besides, wasn't that the point in coming home?

He set down his bag. He had only lived here for a few weeks, but that was time enough to pick up on people's habits. In Alex's experience, few people varied their routines. He heard voices on his first guess.

That confirmed, too, that Hank was still here.

He had no idea what he would call this room. In a game of _Clue_, it was probably the study. Before the Cuban Missile Crisis, it was a room most of them avoided because Erik and Charles were probably holed up in there playing chess and drinking like old men.

Alex knocked on the door and found himself smiling as he realized what he had thought—_coming home._ It was nice to be back in Mutantville.

_To be continued_


	6. The Sound of Feet

Thanks, as always, to Hoodoo for beta-reading.

And thank you to ellie, Voodoo, and icanhearthedrums for reviewing!

* * *

Scott dropped strips of notebook paper in the sink. They soaked through in a matter of seconds, by which time he had fished them out again and pressed them against the windowpane. There they stuck, lines of someone else's words in his own chicken scratch writing.

Then he grabbed the sponge and set into washing the dishes.

Alex's arrival had him all in knots. He seemed all right, and Hank and the Professor were obviously happy to see him. No, Scott did not exactly _dislike_ Alex. He had no strong feelings about the man. But for months, ever since the Professor erased Moira's memories, it had just been the three of them.

Scott liked the way things were. Alex changed things; he was here and everything was different. Scott told himself that Alex had only just arrived and everything would settle into some sort of normal, but it would be a _different_ normal.

"The Team" had been mentioned before. Neither Hank nor the Professor liked talking about the details, although Hank liked talking about the technology and the Professor about the ideas, so Scott knew the abstractions. He knew a little about the other people involved, too, but this was the first time he had ever met one of them.

Thinking about it made his stomach twist. They talked about the team like it was tied to memories they preferred not to have but couldn't get rid of, yet they were both so obviously happy to see Alex. What if they decided to rebuild the team after all? The Professor had been quite clear that one of the differences was age and he would not allow (much as he could prevent it) Scott to be in such a situation. What if they decided they didn't need him anymore? What if…

It was too horrible a thought to actually think. Instead it overwhelmed his mind like a mood or a color. To shift his focus, Scott looked at the papers stuck to the window, choosing at random—

_I have looked down the saddest city lane._

_I have passed by the watchman on his beat_

_And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain._

The words made him feel calmer. They needed to be read slowly, each to be felt in its own time. It was the only way he could read them at all. Somehow, rushing through the poem felt like using the wrong hand to write.

Something brushed against his leg. He barely would have noticed, but for the soft mewl that followed.

"Artie!"

Scott thought something obscene as he dried his hands and took off after her.

When he first brought her home, the Professor agreed she could stay, so long as she lived outdoors and was completely Scott's responsibility. He had not technically broken those rules. They had been adjusted, however, and Artie was now allowed in the kitchen and Scott's bedroom.

She was _not_ allowed to wander off wherever she liked, a restriction to which she seemed to take personal offense.

Now he followed her as quickly as he could without seeming suspicious. He needed to catch her and get her outside without anyone noticing. Artie knew this, and Scott was just quick enough to see her puffy tail disappear through a doorway. _Good._ He could catch her in a room with only one exit.

As soon as he stepped into the room, Scott realized his mistake. Yesterday this had been an unused room. Now the bed was made (if you could call it that!) and a bag lay on the floor. A halfhearted attempt had been made at emptying it.

Yesterday this was an empty room. Now, apparently, it was Alex's.

_Crap._ Neither of them was allowed in here!

"Artie!" Scott called softly.

Though he mostly searched low, scanning any nook under a piece of furniture, he could not help noticing something Alex had out. On the dresser was a bedraggled teddy bear, loved almost to baldness in places. It wasn't the sort of thing he expected a guy like Alex to have. Although they had only known one another for a few hours, Scott already had a fairly clear impression of Alex: suave, unflappable, the kind of person whose confidence was a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Something about the bear drew him. Maybe it was how un-Alex-like it seemed, soft and juvenile from someone so cool. One of its eyes had been chewed off and replaced with a close-enough-to-matching button.

There was something familiar about that bear, his half-wild fur, mismatched eyes, and the loopy 5 drawn on either foot. (Highway 55? May 5th?) Scott could remember wishing for something like this, and when he pictured his wish, the bear looked just like this one.

Claws skittered against the floor as Artie darted out from beneath the bed and made a break for the door. "Hey!" Scott shot forward, smashed his shoulder into the dresser, and scooped up the cat. She struggled, but even with his shoulder aching she was no match for him.

With Artie recaptured, he picked up the photograph that had fallen when he slammed the dresser and caught a glimpse of the image, a young couple with a toddler. He heard that voice again, the one from his dream—

"What're you doing in here?"

Scott looked up at Alex with a sudden nervousness. Somehow there was no doubt in his mind that Alex could beat him up and that, since he had come into Alex's room, he kind of had it coming. He took a step back. "I was just—"

Alex grabbed the picture. "Don't go through my stuff."

Scott nodded. "I won't," he agreed, his voice higher than usual. "I swear." His eyes darted to the door, but Alex was blocking it.

The thought that Alex might have no intention of hurting him did not occur to Scott. Alex himself was barely a factor; a well-learned instinct told Scott to be frightened now. He was on someone else's territory. Besides, nothing had ever stopped anybody pushing him around before.

Alex raised his hand and Scott flinched, tightening his grip on Artie.

Obviously the motion had not been lost on Alex. He made a point of setting down the picture, which Scott now realized was all he had intended to do.

"It's personal, okay? The picture. It's me and my parents." Then he stepped aside.

Scott did not wait for Alex to change his mind. He just deposited Artie outside and went to finish washing the dishes. Two of his strips of paper had fallen, but one remained still stuck to the window:

_I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet._

But he would not have heard the sound of feet, in fact barely heard the water over the rushing in his head.

_to be continued_

_Review? Please? (Okay, that was my one shameless plug, but I do love reviews)_


	7. School is not for Everyone

Thanks to whylime, Voodoo, and ellie for reviewing!

* * *

Charles looked at the chessboard in front of him and debated attempting a solo game. It wouldn't be the same, of course, if such a thing could even work at all, but he found himself aching for a decent opponent.

He had tried teaching Scott, but Scott didn't have the patience to sit still for so long a time. At least not without a book in his hands. It was too bad, really: a nice game of chess might have been the perfect opportunity to mention how often he shouted in his sleep.

Hank could play, but for Hank, chess seemed to be a stimulant. Charles played chess and let the game quiet his mind. It seemed Hank's subconscious never went quiet. At any point during a match, he might have a sudden scientific revelation. He was too considerate to forfeit—usually—but his mind was elsewhere.

Having Hank around kept Charles's ego from inflating. For all he had worked and learned and studied, he would never have Hank's natural ability.

A knock at the door shook him out of his thoughts. Before he has the chance to ask who was there, his visitor answered that question by coming in without waiting for a response. The others wouldn't. Hank, if he burst in, would do so with a rushed apology melding into an even more rushed explanation; and Scott was too compulsively polite.

Alex settled opposite Charles. They could have played chess, but Alex was really more a pinball kind of guy.

"What's the story on your puppy?" he asked.

"I'm sorry?"

"The kid."

Charles sighed. As glad as he was to see Alex, some things about him were difficult to miss.

"I've asked you not to refer to people that way."

He had felt like a primary school teacher, but what choice did he have? Alex had a knack for identifying someone's weakest spot and poking it with a stick.

Alex objected, "You must have noticed the way he looks to you."

"Yes, of course I have," Charles admitted.

That was basically a staple of education with Scott. Charles preferred to think of Scott as the first of many students, still planning to open a mutant academy. He was making progress, too, though what he had right now was one homeschooled fifteen-year-old with the mathematical ability of a goldfish.

Scott was about as good at algebra as he was at chess, but it was hard to be frustrated with him. He always tried and he was deeply apologetic—in fact most of his efforts seemed to be not towards furthering his own education, but making Charles happy. (This, ironically, was incredibly saddening.)

So, yes, Scott looked to Charles as a puppy looks to its master. Alex didn't need to say it, though. Not like that.

"Have you given any thought to what you mean to do?" he asked.

Alex cleared his throat. "I'm not sure," he admitted. "I was kinda hoping I could… uh… the thing is, I still lose control of it sometimes. Of my ability."

"You're always welcome here and I'm still happy to help you however I can."

Previously, Charles had thought Alex made quite a lot of progress. Had he stopped practicing when he left?

Charles had come to appreciate, over the past months, that many powers were far more complicated to use than his own, especially for someone like Scott or Alex. Their powers were destructive. While a mistake for Charles meant knowing something that might be awkward for him to know, Alex or Scott would accidentally find themselves standing in a pile of rubble.

"I'm not sure what I'd do in a school," Alex admitted.

Neither was Charles. It was easier with himself and Hank, and there were other adult mutants. Alex…

"Teach gym."

They both laughed.

There was a place here for Alex. Charles did not yet know what it was, but he was determined that it existed. It had to: where else was Alex going to do if he still lost control?

"What do you like to do, Alex?" He realized he did not know. They had worked together only briefly and unlike the others, Alex's life had not been interrupted by the experiment.

Alex shrugged. "I was never much good at school. Nothing seemed important, relevant."

It sounded, to Charles, likes Alex had never been _interested_ in school. There was a big difference between being no good at math and being taught math poorly—but it wasn't the time for that argument.

Instead, he asked, "What do you like to do outside of school?" He saw the answer before Alex gave it and objected, "Oh, come on, you must have something. What have you been doing for the past year?"

"Well…"

Alex cleared his throat. There was something, but Charles neither pressed the issue nor used his telepathy. He had learned to rely less on that, over the past few months. Communicating via thoughts was often the easier option—'option' being the most important word. If he read Scott's mind even half so often as he considered it, Scott would probably barely speak for the rest of his life.

The same could not be said of Alex, yet Charles found himself using the same tactic. He was not their peer. That changed how he behaved towards them, how much he considered 'helping'.

"We'll find something," he promised, and he believed it, though Alex clearly did not.

_To be continued!_


	8. Different

With thanks to Voodoo and icanhearthedrums for reviewing!

* * *

"This is different," Alex observed. He did not mean 'good' or 'bad' in saying so—only what he said. Different. When it had been the whole team, they tended to break into groups. They did not all sit down to dinner together like… he could think of no better comparison: a family.

"It's his fault," Hank replied, indicating Scott. "Charles decided we needed house rules a few months back."

Scott gave him a brief look of dissent, then ducked his head. Alex was not terribly surprised. Three times today, he and Scott had been in the same room. None of those instances involved Scott speaking. Alex was about ready to update his analysis from 'puppy' to 'turtle'.

Charles retorted, "I decided that before Scott's arrival. He was catalytic, not causal."

"You guys are dorks."

"Yes, we are," Charles acknowledged. "Would you pass the… um…"

Hank passed the box. "It's called _gan chao niu he_."

"You speak Chinese?" Alex had not known that about Hank.

"Only the stuff off the menu. Unfortunately the only one of us who can cook at all is Scott. And that's mostly pancakes."

At the sound of his name, Scott raised his head sharply. "What?" He blinked, disoriented.

Hank explained, "I was just saying that me and Charles can't even make oatmeal."

"Oatmeal's hard," Scott agreed, missing the point.

"What you make isn't oatmeal," Charles responded, "it's liquid cookies."

"It has fruit."

"It's liquid oatmeal-raisin cookies."

Whether Charles had won the argument or simply reached a point at which Scott was no longer willing to argue, no one could say. They lapsed back into silence. It might have been called companionable by the others. Hank and Scott were quiet, and Charles was happy enough with his own thoughts.

Alex didn't like silences at dinner. When he was a kid, that meant his parents were having another argument and even the slightest wrong word would send his mother away in tears. Silence meant kids too afraid to talk.

He was no longer a kid, but the silence still made Alex uncomfortable.

"Are you still looking for your cure?" he wondered out loud. Catching Charles's expression, he added, "Hey, just a question. I still think you look badass."

Hank did not seem to mind, though. "I don't feel that would be worthwhile."

"Cool."

"Did you make it out to California?"

"Yeah. It was awesome." Alex had done a few things in California he was not going to mention in front of Charles or Scott. (Or at least, Charles and Scott. You could imply filth with a 15-year-old, right?) Many of his experiences there were cliché. They did, in fact, play volleyball topless at the beach, and Venice teemed with seagulls, rastas, and teenagers on roller skates.

He'd had a henna tattoo on his shoulder. The friends he made there, they warned him it would itch like anything. Mostly the dried henna flaked off in the sand—those California girls were wild. Oh, he could say plenty about them, too!

Instead, he said, "You could live on the beach out there. It's never cold."

"You were homeless?" Hank asked.

It was an _adventure_. Didn't he understand that?

"Could've," Alex clarified, "I didn't though."

Scott laughed again, softly. Alex did not even try imagining what was in his mind.

Apparently, Charles did. "Scott."

He raised his head. "Hm?"

"Give it to me."

"But… I wasn't…" Scott was a truly awful liar, fumbling and obviously avoiding eye contact.

"It's all right." Charles might as well have taken that tone with a four-year-old. Alex decided 'puppy' might have been right, after all. "I'm not angry."

Hank caught Scott's eye and murmured something that sound suspiciously like, "Neep."

Whatever that meant, it made both of them snicker and Scott handed a book to Charles, who took one look at it and remarked, "Oh, honestly, at the table?"

Hank read the title, "_The Wonderful O_? Isn't that a bit mature?"

"It's about pirates," Scott said. "And, um, this island, Ooroo, and the pirate captain bans the letter 'o' because his mother got stuck in a portal… it's actually really interesting and funny," he finished weakly, apparently realizing how babyish that sounded. A book about the alphabet? Wasn't he supposed to be fifteen?

Suddenly Alex had to laugh at the whole situation. "Remember the Eisenhower statue?" he asked.

"It was Walter Bedell Smith," Hank corrected.

"You were dancing upside down," Alex retorted. Hank could play at being an uptight smartypants all he liked—in fact, he pretty much _was _an uptight smartypants—but Alex had seen him party. He knew for a fact that it happened, or had happened at least once.

Hank mumbled something about how yes, he did remember that.

"And that's Alexander Summers in a nutshell," Charles remarked.

Scott's head jerked up. He seemed more engaged than he had been the entire evening, obviously wide-eyed even with the glasses. "What did you say?"

Charles's expression softened. "Oh, Scott, I'm sorry. Nothing more than a coincidence."

"_Alexander Summers_?"

Alex didn't like the way Scott said his name, like it meant something, like it was more than just what his parents happened to slap on him before dying. "How 'bout you cool it on the name?" he suggested. Scott did, and they lapsed once more into silence.

Alex really missed Sean. Everyone was so serious now, and he knew he did not belong anymore. What did you say, in this environment? It was… it was almost like being back with his parents. The couple who adopted Alex had done their best, but they were button-down types to say the least.

Finally, he tried, "You play soccer now?"

"Scott does."

"Baseball's better," Scott offered. "But with only one person, all you can really do is pitch and I'm not much of a pitcher."

Alex could not help himself. "You're more of a catcher?" he asked, his meaning quite clear from the barely-suppressed laughter in his voice.

"I… I guess so."

Scott obviously had no idea what he was saying, which made it that much more hilarious to Alex. He pressed a hand to his mouth, but he could not keep from laughing.

"That's enough," Charles told him.

After a moment's awkward quiet, Hank asked, "Were you on buses the whole time? While you were traveling."

"No, I had a motorcycle for a while."

"Where did you get a motorcycle?"

"I traded a couple weeks in a garage for this old Whizzer. You know, the one that looks like you put a motor on a Schwinn." He held a touch of a grudge against the man running the garage. Alex had spent his free time tuning up the thing, which looked about ready for scrap when he arrived. By the time he wanted to buy it, the garage owner told him it was now worth much more.

Alex had responded to that by smashing the lock on his garage and riding off in the middle of the night with the Whizzer.

Scott stood and walked out of the room.

"Scott."

He didn't even pause.

Charles looked at Alex, then sighed and shook his head.

"I stopped when you asked me to," Alex insisted.

"I know."

Somehow, that made Alex feel no better about it. Coming back here was like going back to his parents' house, something Alex no longer did. He felt out of place, too rough around the edges, too _real_ for this damned façade none of them seemed to see through.

_To be continued_

_(in case anyone wonders: _The Wonderful O_ is a children's book published in the 1950s. It is, as described, a bit silly and filled with pirates. It is not what Hank and Charles think it is.)_


	9. Something Weird

Thanks to Voodoo, Ellie, and whylime for reviewing!

* * *

The lab smelled faintly of wet dog, but his damp hair helped Hank feel a little less like he was melting in the heat. That was possibly his favorite thing about his apishness, the extra wet hair when the temperature approached Hellish numbers.

A knock at the door did not surprise him.

"Come in!"

Hank did not look up from his microscope. When he told Alex he had abandoned his search for a cure, he had told the truth. However, he had not abandoned any search to understand. Hank wanted to know how mutant genes really affected them, what was unique from one mutant to the next and what was universally true.

He could feel the anxiety shooting off of Scott, though, like pins pinging around the room. Hank could only concentrate so long and finished his observation early.

Over the past months, he had come to think of Scott as a friend. He was surprisingly easy to talk to and although he did not quite grasp science as Hank did, he appreciated it. They joked when Scott helped out in the lab ("science class") and generally enjoyed one another's company.

Usually, although Hank knew Scott's age, he simply thought of him as a peer. Now he was very aware of how young Scott was. He looked… vulnerable.

"You just have to show him that you won't let him push you around," Hank suggested. "Once you do that, Alex will stop bothering you."

Probably. In theory. Hank knew Alex had chosen him as a target before because he was the weakest of the guys, but he had not expected Alex to do the same to a kid. And he could only guess that responding with strength would be effective, never having done so himself.

Scott shrugged. "I didn't even get what he was saying," he admitted.

Hank did not want to explain Alex's crude jokes. "It doesn't matter. He was trying to upset you to see if he could."

Apparently, this was a good enough answer. Scott looked down as he scuffed his shoes against the floor. "Thanks for doing the dishes. I didn't… I would've…"

"You can do the same for me some time."

"Am I in a lot of trouble?"

Over the past weeks, Scott had been quite obviously not all right, even for him. The nightmares were getting worse. Now he was lying, and had nearly asked Hank to lie for him. He walked off without a word. Being moody and withdrawn was normal for teenagers, but not for Scott.

Honestly, he said, "Charles is probably just worried about you."

"What's your evidence," Scott retorted, sounding very much like a fifteen-year-old kid.

"I am, too."

Scott began to object, and Hank continued, "I'm your friend. I'm not going to bust you for having a couple of bad days. I'm just… here. If I can help, I will. Otherwise, it doesn't matter."

Hank had never been one to go prying into other people's problems. A rather self-conscious individual, he did not like having people poking about in his personal concerns and would not do the same to Scott.

"Actually I need a favor," Scott said. "I feel like a total dick even asking, but I really need your help."

Hank nodded. "Okay."

Scott swallowed. "I was hoping you'd look at my blood."

"Yeah, sure." Hank always liked a blood sample, but he was surprised. For months, Scott had been nervous in the lab. He still was. Hank had tried to help by explaining what everything was and what it did and why it wouldn't be used to hurt him—but Scott had a fear of sterile clinics carved in his bones. "I can take it now, if you want," he offered.

Scott nodded. He took a seat and Hank set out a capped syringe, a vial, cotton balls, and rubbing alcohol. "Is, is all that—do you really need all that?" Scott stammered, shifting away from the supplies.

"Unless you want to get sick," Hank said. "Your skin is basically protection. It keeps harmful things like bacteria out of your bloodstream. The problem is, it doesn't actually repel the bacteria, it just keeps them out, so if I don't disinfect your arm before taking your blood, you're likely to get an infection. You could—you could get sick," he amended, catching himself before using the word 'die'.

This explanation accompanied the action. Hank soaked a cotton ball and swabbed Scott's skin, near his elbow. He felt Scott trembling as he did. When he glanced up, he saw that Scott had gone pale. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

Scott nodded. "I just don't like needles."

And Hank didn't like bananas, but he didn't shake at the sight of one.

"What exactly am I looking for?"

"That's the thing, I'd rather—Christ on a cross, that hurts!"

Sliding a needle into a vein is careful work. Had he been at a less delicate task, he would have laughed. Instead, Hank focused on drawing blood. Only when he withdrawn the needle and pressed another cotton ball to Scott's arm did he comment, "Hold this down. Since when do you say 'Christ on a cross'?"

"Since the Professor heard me say 'fuck a duck'."

He couldn't argue with that. "So what is it you want me to look for?"

"You said everything you needed to know about a person was in a few drops of blood."

"Yeah, but…"

"I didn't want to, um, bias the testing. I think there's something weird about me."

Hank nodded. He expected to find nothing at all unusual. Scott was just having a tough time because he was fifteen. It wasn't easy to grow up even without the ability to decimate buildings with your eyes. If anyone knew the sensation of radical change it was Hank. After the "cure", he had looked at his own blood to see what he was. Scott wanted the same. That wasn't unreasonable.

Sticking a band-aid onto Scott's arm, he said, "I'll tell you what I find."

_To be continued_


	10. Heaven and Hell

Thank you to Thousandsmiles, whylime, tree-of-life8, Voodoo, and ellie for reviewing! While I can't answer some questions without spoilers, I can promise that the story will answer them eventually :)

This chapter mentions several industries; this is based on the economy of Omaha. Nebraska Consolidated is now ConAgra (in case anyone loves those random details like I do).

* * *

Before the alarm finished blaring, Scott wanted to hide. The Professor was mad, and he woke with instinct coursing through his veins. Maybe it seemed like cowardice—maybe it _was_ cowardice—but it was also the only answer. The entire learning of his childhood told him to make himself scarce.

It had taken him most of the morning to work up the courage to even show up. Being the only student in class had its advantages and disadvantages, and the inability to disappear was a disadvantage today. Back in Nebraska, he could have ditched. If anyone noticed, they wouldn't care.

What did an angry telepath do, exactly?

Scott imagined pain. He imagined what pain in his mind would feel like, the headaches only a million times worse. He imagined living out the rest of his life believing he was a chipmunk.

He had plenty of time to worry about it, and a very vivid imagination.

The last thing he expected was reality.

As the morning's heat moved into the territory of 'utterly stifling', Scott had lost all the cleverness he tried to plan. Like every time before, he stumbled to find the right words, "I guess it seemed pretty obvious, at first. We exist because we're here. Like, this is us, right here, and that's… you know, you're in your body, and then your body dies and you're not there anymore."

Neither of them had really known what to call this particular 'class'. Scott suggested English. The Professor suggested Philosophy. What it was, was surprisingly challenging for something that consisted primarily of talking.

Hesitant, he wondered, "Am I a terrible person for saying that? About dying?"

"Not at all," the Professor assured him. "Death is simply a fact. There's no need to be afraid to speak of it. Go on."

Scott did not know how to talk about death. There had never been any need in his life before. In an orphanage, death, who was dead… that was simply accepted. Talking about it was cruel.

He took a moment before continuing, "Okay, so… right, so we die and we're dead, only, I guess we want to believe this story, that we have a soul or whatever, and we don't actually die, we just go to Heaven or something. But that's not what the author's saying. He says the _totality_ of existence is identified with matter."

"Does he?"

"Um. Yeah?" Scott meant that to sound more certain than it did. He had been certain. Now he looked to the Professor, who regarded him impassively. _Craptastic._ "Why not just tell me?" he blurted, which at least succeeded in shattering that blank demeanor. "S-sorry. I didn't, um… I was…"

"What do you think?"

"I dunno."

"Well that's why I won't tell you the answers. After a point—once you get to college, perhaps more important than learning information is learning to think."

Scott's immediate reaction was to scoff. Who did he think he was talking to, Hank? "I'm not going to college."

"And why is that?"

"Because…" It seemed so obvious, Scott had never needed to give a reason. Life was always so simple. It was unpleasant, but it was simple, which helped because according to his last school so was he. Academic types went to college. Kids like Scott worked in Nebraska Consolidated, the breweries, and the stockyards. The Union Pacific, if he was really lucky.

Somehow, since arriving in New York, he hadn't considered where he would be once he hit eighteen.

"Well?"

Scott shrugged.

"Scott—I suppose that's something we can talk about when you're a little older."

"Hm." There wasn't a polite way to say that putting off a futile discussion was about as pointless as the discussion itself. He heard the frustration in the Professor's voice; doubting he could ease that, Scott tensed.

"So! Souls and matter, yes?"

"Right! That um, ah, according to him, there is no soul, there is no Heaven. We exist here as our body. That's what he, what the quote says. The soul is just in your head, your mind really, and when you die, you're gone."

"Hm."

Knowing more was expected of him, Scott scrounged up the words to continue: "Which could be a good thing or a bad thing. If it's only physical, existence is, then nobody gets to go to Heaven, but nobody has to go to Hell, either. And imagine if _you_ went to Heaven, but you loved somebody who went to Hell. There would be no end to it, and you'd spend an eternity alone, missing them. Forever."

"Heaven would be torment."

That was perhaps the closest to agreement Scott had heard in the past half hour. "So… was that it? Was it right?"

"I've told you before, there is no 'right' and no 'wrong'. I'd like to ask you something about your interpretation."

Scott nodded.

"If there is a Heaven, must there be a Hell?"

Wasn't that obvious?

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because… because if everyone went to Heaven, it wouldn't be Heaven. You'd just be back in a place like this, and then what's the point in having a Heaven at all?"

"Fair enough. Is it so bad here?"

"No, that's not—I didn't mean—not like _here_. On Earth. Not in Heaven."

"We're still on Earth," which was quite true.

For a while, Scott didn't respond. He picked at the loose threads on his jeans and listened to the clock tick. "I was in a foster home. They only kept me for two days." The air went out of his lungs. Two days with him made a couple prefer childlessness. It was a pain he did not expect anyone to understand. Then he shook it off and concluded, "This is pretty much different from every other part of Earth I've ever known. Was that okay?"

"Do you remember the full assignment?"

_But was that okay!_ Sometimes the lack of answer frustrated Scott beyond words. He still wasn't used to this, after months.

He swallowed his frustration and quoted, "'The totality of existence was finally identified with matter'."

"'Was identified.'"

"Yes." That was the quote, Scott was sure of it. He thought for a moment—then he realized. "Oh. Oh, I'm—I can't believe I missed that! So it wasn't what the author was saying at all! It was what he was _observing_ other people thinking! Well… not observing their thinking, of course, not like—but he's heard—it's what… it's what he's saying about what other people say?"

"Well done."

Scott's attendance in school had always been spotty. He was "prone to illness".

In Omaha, they hadn't challenged that. There had been the occasional implication that his "illness" was self-induced. No one asked if someone was doing things to him. Every experiment, every test, every _thing_ he had no words for kept him away from school.

He thought that was difficult for the Professor and Hank to understand. Their lives had been education, so his generally poor academic performance was outside their comprehension. Neither had been cruel or even particularly impatient with him, but words of praise were rare and that comment had a visible effect on Scott.

"There was one more piece, I think?"

"Yeah, it was the one about poetry and stuff. What was really cool about that one, a lot of the time people talk about books like they're kind of useless. I mean, they don't think… it's not important to people, it's, y'know, for girls, but he says that's not true. What he's basically saying is that poets have this gift, this ability to see things other people can't, and a poet can—just by stating what's right in front of him—make ordinary people happy. Like the writer is… I guess like sharing a piece of himself. He has this gift, it makes writing into something, like a, a good deed. He could just hold it for himself, but it's not a choice, it's a gift. An innate ability, but a gift."

Scott looked at his hands as he spoke, babbling hunched over like he could physically guard against the sting of failure. He risked a glance at the Professor and could not help but grin. He ducked his head.

"What is it?"

"It's nothing, it's just… sometimes, when we're doing this, when I'm just talking and talking and not really saying anything, you get this look on your face. Like you're really happy."

The Professor raised an eyebrow. Part of the surprise in seeing him look flat-out happy was the lack of affectation. Normally, you saw exactly what he wanted you to see, nothing more. "I am happy."

"Well… yeah, but… I didn't mean like…" Scott found himself trying to explain, backtrack, to _somehow_ make this okay. He had not meant that as a general statement. He meant the Professor looked happy here, now.

"No, not in general—that's not the point." He leaned forward with a look of seriousness and honesty that was one more what he wanted to project. "I genuinely enjoy teaching you, and I am proud of you when you succeed."

Scott didn't know how to react to that. He had succeeded? _The Professor was proud of him?_

"Scott, when the school opens—and it is going to—it won't just be us anymore."

"Yeah, I know."

He hoped that would be an end to this discussion. It would have been, in Omaha, but the Professor's expression clearly said otherwise. So this could only really be about one thing.

Because it was summer, they had agreed there was no point in using a grading system, but Scott knew if they had he would be pretty consistently damp—below 'c' level. He was okay with English/Philosophy, and as long as science meant working with Hank he wasn't too concerned, but everything else was like a foreign language.

Which, thankfully, was one thing Scott did _not_ have to study. He was confused enough in English!

"I'll work harder," he said.

"Scott…"

"I will! I…" What? He would spend more hours staring at meaningless mixes of numbers and letters? Ask Hank to please go back to explaining everything, even though it meant a blank stare in response? With a sinking feeling, Scott realized this probably meant less time reading the kids' books they let him take from the library.

He loved those books.

"I dunno, I'll figure it out."

It didn't matter. They were dumb books, anyway, and he had better things to do with his time.

"What is it you think we're discussing, exactly?"

With his head down and his shoulders slumped, Scott had no idea exactly how like a guilty puppy he looked.

"I'm not ready to be in classes with other people. I won't be able to keep up."

It was pointless to insist otherwise. They both knew, anyway, that effort wouldn't make a difference. It hadn't so far.

"Oh, no, you're not off that easily. It would be premature to discount the possibility that someone might be better able to teach you, but I'll still be here. My concern," that word again!, "is that it's going to be several new people and in the past few months you've barely had to speak to anyone but me and Hank. I'm telling you this now so you can be ready when it actually happens."

Scott thought on that for a moment. He knew his ability to deal with new people was, to say the least, lacking. His mind flashed on the two he had met in town yesterday and he promptly silenced those thoughts. He hadn't mentioned it to the Professor and preferred he not know.

Instead he thought about Alex.

Hank said he only needed to stand up to Alex, but Scott had no idea how or when to do that. Avoiding Alex proved much easier. Was that the problem, that he had been rude with Alex?

"I don't start fights," Scott said. "I've been in a few, but I try not to."

"Why don't we leave it, for now?"

"Does that mean—"

"No that does not mean you're excused from maths! But we can work on that later. I'm beginning to feel like a jailer, keeping you inside on a day like this."

Scott did not need to be told twice. These philosophical discussions might be his favorite area of study, but _any_ area of study paled in comparison to being outside. He was at the door before he thought to pause and add, "I appreciate it, though." Going over the same basic algebraic principles and historical events couldn't be fun. Teaching someone who had been in remedial classes in a real school wasn't something anyone aspired to and he was genuinely touched at the Professor's willingness to continue helping him.

But that was more emotion than Scott was comfortable expressing. Instead he shrugged and mumbled, "Just saying."

_To be continued!_


End file.
